CHEF GIRARD HEARTHSPICE: “ What is this pile of bugbear shit?”

YOU: Those are the last words you hear as you are escorted out of the headquarters of the Guild D’Gourmet. A pair of burly half-orcs take you by the shoulder and toss you out without ceremony. As you stand up and brush yourself off from the dirt, the wide gates slams shut. Even though it's closed, you can still hear muffled peals of laughter at your expense.

CONNOISSEUR [EASY: SUCCESS]: Gaining membership into the esteemed culinary authority of the Occident is no small feat. The selection process is strict and consists of three phases. You made it halfway through the first which is better than most chefs can say.

YOU: The head examiner, a geriatric gnome, barely even tasted your dish before deciding it was the worst sin since well-done unicorn steak.

RAISON D’ETRE: Who needs the advice of a couple of old dinosaurs anyway? You’ve managed to get this far on your own.

ENTERPRISE: No restaurant in the Occident can open without their say-so. Perhaps, partnering with another guild will be of benefit.

RAISON D’ETRE: Who needs partners? Let’s be in charge of our own restaurant!

SHOWMANSHIP: The world needs to know your flavor, and we don’t need the Guild to cramp our style.

ENTERPRISE: Intriguing. An independent venture? We can finally manage our salaries!

YOU: I can get more than 10 imperials an hour?

SHOWMANSHIP: Think of the decorations! We don’t have to deal with rotting oak planks anymore or those unsightly barmaid uniforms!

YOU: The price for entry was steep, though. You begin to search through your pockets and the bindle which you carried with you on your back.

TEXTURE [EASY: SUCCESS]: A smattering of small metal coins clinking is familiar to you. You have at most 50 golden imperials, 35 sliver kings, 10 bronze paupers and an eclectic collection of pennies and nickels. You have a few clothes on your back, but where are your kitchen tools?

CONNOSEUIR: As a price for your failure, the Guild D’Cuisine requisitioned all of your remaining kitchenware for their use. It was written in the contract that you signed before the selection process.

YOU: There was one thing they didn’t manage to take though.

[X] - A heirloom knife made of a mithril and adamantium alloy.

[X] - A Kauldron brand, enchanted wok, perfectly smithed to distribute heat evenly.

[X] - Your bottle of toasted spirit cooking oil from the Celestial planes. It’s half empty.

[X] - A Kauldron brand, enchanted wok, perfectly smithed to distribute heat evenly.

YOU: At least, they didn’t steal your wok. You gently hold the master-crafted implement in your hands. The smooth ebony handle grips nicely to your calloused hands. Whorls of runes are etched on glossy steel. You flip it around to examine the bottom. The sigil of a pot filigreed in gold with two cherubic angels on either side of it. The mark of Kauldron Emporium.

CONNOISSEUR [EASY: SUCCESS]: Kauldron Emporium is the foremost smithery of dwarven forged cookware in the Western Occident, their specialty residing in heat sensitive equipment. Its creator, Roil Belloweather, became frustrated after being forced one too many times to repair their family’s communal pot from his wife’s horrible concoctions. Thus, a profitable venture was born.

YOU: You trace the bottom. The lack of charring from extended use is a testament to the craftsmanship of the western dwarves.

TEXTURE [EASY:SUCCESS]: Your body heat leeches away from your skin like a sponge. You can almost feel the currents of cold and hot pumping within the wok, an intricate web of heat dissipating through it like a tidal wave.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS [EASY:SUCCESS]: Light, accurate and deadly for frying. Just the way you like it.

YOU: You take care to tie the wok carefully around your bindle and take stock of your other belongings. All your bare necessities are still there: spare clothing, a waterskin made from goat vellum and your trusty grease-splattered apron.

Staring wistfully back at the door, you think for a moment that maybe, there’s a chance you could go back in and ask them for your belongings back.

ENTERPRISE [FAILURE]: Who do you think you are? Every tavern cook here has more reputation in their left pinky than you have here. After that miserable performance, you’re lucky that they still left you alive as it was.

RAISON D’ETRE: Didn’t you listen to what we said before? We. Don’t. Need. The. Guild. D’Cuisine.

YOU: But -

RAISON D’ETRE: No but’s. The mark of a true chef is to persevere through pain. This is just one of the many trials you’ll have to go through in order to reach your precipice.

YOU: I don’t get much of a say in this, do I?

RAISON D’ETRE: You were insane enough to become a chef. Why stop now?

YOU: Signing longingly, you trudge off the steps of the entrance and into the bustling city of Benin around you.

CONNOSEUIR [SUCCESS]: Benin is a humble trade port on the outreaches of the Bruised Steppes, the Azure Mare scything through and dividing it into three halves. It is perhaps the greatest hidden confluence of cuisines from all across the Occident where a burgeoning gastronomic revolution bubbles underneath the cobbled streets…….

Abruptly, a wagon rolls past by you, filled with its quarry of pungent seafood from the riverside harbor. The driver gives you an apologetic wave. The streets are modestly bare around you. A guardsman in the streets takes out his lantern, reminding you that noon is on its way soon. Your stomach then growls to grab your attention.

Palette: It’s in the air around you. A cornucopia of delights. Gnomish pastries, elvish sommeliers, dwarven fare, smoked hydra……

YOU: Letting your palette guide you as you walk around on the streets, you decide to sate your appetite at….

[X] - An inn. Smoke billows out of its chimney in thick fumes and the rowdy noise of brawling customers can be heard from far away.

[X] - A street side stall. A queue of hungry customers stretches outs like a snake.

[X] - A eatery. The tables are bare like a desert oasis and you can spot a white drabbed figure milling about aimlessly, sweeping the litter of autumn away with a broom.

[X] - A street side stall. A queue of hungry customers stretches outs like a snake.

>UPDATING MITHRIL CHEF FROM 3.5 EDITION TO 5th EDITION

The idea of drinking your sorrows away with a mug of ale sounds promising as does having the opportunity to taste local Benin cuisine. However, the street food appears to be the perfect balance between expenses and expectations.

SYNTHESIA : How could you turn up your nose to street food? That raw smell that brings you back to simpler times, the hubbub of children chattering together, adults conversing together while waiting? It is the glue that binds a village together in times of dismal hope.

CONNOISSEUR (SUCCESS): During the aftermaths of the 4th and 5th Iridescent Wars, street food blossomed in popularity as eateries and taverns closed down in the wake of King Arlo’s tariffs on grain, meat and other imports from the East Twilight Principality. If you wanted to eat cheap, hawkers were more likely to be your friend than the local garrison.

ENTERPRISE (SUCCESS): It’s the life of the hustle, baby. The glorious financial arithmetic of coin for food is in front of you as of this moment. No special offers. No discounts. No guild inspections or certifications. Just the dreams of an individual bunkered under the need to survive.

The line is slow and long as you trudge forward at the pace of an eptileptic slug. A lumbering troll and a dwarf squeeze you enough that it’s almost suffocating. This all better be worth it.

ENTERPRISE: A street vendor’s life lives or dies by the quality of their food. If there’s this many people lining up, you know you’re in for a good time.

PALETTE: You could have experienced better flavors if you were more willing to be frugal….

ENTERPRISE: A decent meal costs 20 silver kings. Tavern food is overpriced anyway. Being conservative with our culinary investments is the only logical route at this point.

DIRTY STREET FOOD STALL: After a long period of waiting, you make it to the front of the line. The stall is clumsily built together from bell iron and worm-eaten planks of oak. The letters “ N” have been scratched 4 times on the upper most plank. Racks of foul meat, vegetables and stale food hang from flaxen rope. A jar of floating eyeballs in brine squint at you as you come closer.

NIM NOM: Behind the stall, you spot a cloaked tiny figure standing on top of a bag of flour. A stained apron is wrapped around his torso. He’s currently stirring into a wok aggressively with an oversized ladle over a charcoal fire.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS (SUCCESS): A spatula would be more suitable for this type of operation.

PALETTE: Each toss brings new flavor. It isn’t just for show. The flecks of aroma that cloy onto every granule of food. The sear. The heat. It’s like smelling a campfire.

He turns around. Bright yellow eyes stare out at you from under a ratty brown hood. He jumps off the bag of flour and waddles towards you.

NIM NOM: “ Welcome to Nim Nom’s Num Num’s. Your order?”

The chef speaks so fast you barely have time to decipher his words.

VISUALIZATION (FAILURE): You can’t quite figure out who this chef is. A goblin, maybe?

“ Excuse me?”

NIM NOM: The chef shakes his head in annoyance and slaps a furry clawed hand on one of the front facing planks to catch your attention. A series of names is written alongside a table of prices. This must be his menu.

“ You hungry, you buy.”

At his insistence, you peruse the list, thinking carefully about what to buy.

[X] - Flochian Flambe

[X] - The Garbage Chest

[X] - Stoned Aboleth

[X] - Flochian Flambe

NIM NOM: As the last syllable leaves your lips, the tiny hooded chef begins to break into a flurry of excitement. The furious speed at which he’s moving transforms him into a multi-armed demonic god of epic culinary proportions.

TIMING: Yet, in the chaos, there is a symphony of execution. Every chop, every move that he makes is a ballad, an ode to his skill. A method in the madness is still present, in spite of his unorthodox methods.

NIM NOM: The vertically challenged chef slams a hunk of kraken tentacle onto the counter. It’s still squirming. He takes out a knife and begins making a series of rapid scores through the meat, barely visible to the eye.

TECHNICAL RUDIMENTS: Every cut he makes, it isn’t just for show. Every cut is exactly placed in order to prevent the meat from curling up, a common tendency amongst cephlapods. You wouldn’t expect to see something so ingenious in a street stall.
NIM NOM: Once he’s done, he places the prepared tentacle into a wok. He takes a pouch and dusts a mixture of spices and herbs over the still-cooking meat. Under the broiling heat, the skin begins to crackle into a nice brown crust.

PALLETE: The smell of cardamom, cane sugar, dried firepeppers blending together…..

NIM NOM: He then produces an amber bottle of foul-smelling liquid and drizzles it into the wok. Immediately, a gout of orange-blue flame swallows the bowl before dying down into a coat of trickling fire. The inferno slides off the crisp meat. He throws a sprinkle of pine nuts that cloy onto the sticky meat. He shimmies it onto a palm leaf and then hands it towards you.

You inspect the dish curiously with a pensive eye.

VISUALIZATION: The presentation is a little lacking…..

PALETTE: But taste is often the better indicator of talent

Eventually, you take a bite. It’s a war of contrasting flavors as you piece together the culinary puzzle that has been assembled before you. The meat is cooked well, having a tough satisfying bite that demands your attention as you chew it. It straddles the line between being too rubbery to eat and being too soft to enjoy. The notorious gaminess of kraken meat has been balanced by the earthiness of the pine nuts and the mysterious glaze that the chef used.

If a street chef can incorporate such refined methods, perhaps, you could too?

NEW INGREDIENT UNLOCKED: A DASH OF PEASANTRY

Ingredients are special boons that offer you unique stat bonuses when interacting or options within certain encounters.

NIM NOM: “ Oi, knife ear.” the chef pipes up. “ You block line. Move.”

VISUALIZATION (FAILURE): A knife-ear? Has he spotted a ear infection?

CONNOSEUIR: A knife-ear is the common informal term for half-elves. It’s typically used by orcs, trolls and…

Kobold. You should have figured it out. There’s only one race in all of the Occident that gravitates towards street food.

RACE UNLOCKED: Half-Elf

RAISON D’ETRE: However, as you look at this Kobold, you realize that he has something that you don’t have at the moment. A purpose and livelihood to strive towards.

What sparked your journey towards culinary ascendency?

[X] - A rivalry between you and a chef of another house.

[X] - To fufill an oath you swore to your former Chef de Cuisine

[X] - To pay off a debt to a plane entity.

[X] - Write in